


...and best wishes for a happy new year

by vinyl_octopus



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Miscommunication, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 23:06:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3095942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinyl_octopus/pseuds/vinyl_octopus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quick fic for the new year, and to say thank you to some Tumblr friends...</p>
            </blockquote>





	...and best wishes for a happy new year

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tracionn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tracionn/gifts), [fractionallyfoxtrot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractionallyfoxtrot/gifts), [hollyashes](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=hollyashes).



It was a bit chilly out here; apart from being the depths of winter, there was necessarily very little to block the icy wind. But the view… Perched on top of the van and overlooking the mostly-dark airfield, it was nearly perfect. It wasn’t the best place to see the _fireworks_ , which were taking place a fair distance away, but they were visible enough and this far out from the town centre Martin could even see a few stars.

He practically had the spot to himself; there were a couple of other cars here at the lookout but judging from the steam at the windows the occupants weren’t all that bothered with “looking”. Martin had parked as far away from them as possible, then clambered up onto his van roof with a rug, a small portable radio, and a bottle of fizzy apple juice – the closest thing to Champagne he could manage, given his budget and the fact he was driving. If he thought about it (and he deliberately didn’t) perhaps it was a little pathetic, however, he’d had no other invitations and sticking around at Parkside Terrace for the inevitable loud party was less than appealing.

The radio was slightly staticky, but he could hear enough that the inane New Year commentary provided a little company as he tugged the blanket half over him and stared up at the sky, determinedly not thinking about what the next year would – or more likely _wouldn’t_ – bring. He let his mind drift, relaxing for once as he scanned for shooting stars and waited for the countdown to begin.

He’d counted seven stars (and made six half-serious wishes and one heartfelt one) when the unexpected crunch of gravel and arcing swing of lights made him jump. Another loved-up pair come seeking privacy, he assumed, frowning a bit when he heard the vehicle draw nearer and apparently park right next to him. He sighed and carefully rolled a little closer to the centre of the roof, out of sight.

A car door slammed. “Martin?”

“Douglas?” Martin sat up with a start, knocking his tinny radio over and scrabbling to stop his glass bottle of juice rolling off the roof. He twisted around and the van rocked a bit as Douglas stepped onto the back bumper and his head appeared at Martin’s feet.

He looked slightly ruffled and not entirely pleased to see Martin.

“I thought you had a … _thing_?” Martin waved his hand in the general direction of “elsewhere” and swallowed the painful lump that had lodged in his throat ever since Douglas had mentioned his romantic plans. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you.”

As if it were obvious. As if Martin wouldn’t notice he’d dodged the first half of his query. “How did you know I was here?”

Douglas raised both eyebrows and looked pointedly at the airfield.

Martin rolled his eyes and sat up a bit straighter, offended by the implication that he was either that boring or that predictable. “How did you know _I_ didn’t have plans?”

Douglas sighed. “Because… Look, can I come up?”

Martin shuffled backwards and spread his arms magnanimously. “Mi casa, su casa.”

A clank and a thud and a good deal more rocking ensued as Douglas hauled himself inelegantly onto the roof and landed sprawled next to Martin with a grimace.

“Welcome aboard,” said Martin, sarcastically.

“I can’t imagine _you_ got up here any more easily,” huffed Douglas, straightening his shirt where it had rucked up from his exertions.

Martin avoided looking at the tantalising flash of skin. Instead he twisted the cap off his bottle and took a deliberately nonchalant swig, ignoring the sparkly fizz tickling his nose. “I’ve had a lot more practice. And I came up the side.”

For a split second, Douglas looked wrong-footed… But then he seemed to snap out of it, rolling onto his side and suddenly looking a lot more comfortable and predatory than he had before.

Martin carefully didn’t allow his eyes to wander. “Slightly rumpled” was somehow looking a little more “artfully dishevelled” now, and even in the icy wind, Douglas was a long, sensuous, warm line oozing along the entire side of the van roof.

“So…” The croak of his voice rather undermined his attempt to sound casual. Martin picked at the label on his bottle by way of distraction and hoped his friend wouldn't notice.

“Martin.” Douglas’s gaze was troublingly penetrating, his tone irritatingly close to the one he used on Arthur when he was being particularly dim-witted. “When I told you I had _plans_ , what exactly did you think I meant?”

Martin’s eyelids stuttered. “I…well.” He blushed, entirely unnecessarily; visions of a thousand stewardesses flocking loudly through his brain towards Douglas’s front door.

“ _Plans_ with someone _special,_ ” Douglas’s voice interrupted the unwanted parade.

“Y-yes?” Martin was frowning so deeply now he could almost feel his brows touching. The mental flock flashed out of existence, to be replaced with Douglas's daughters in an imaginary balloon-strewn kitchen.

Douglas sighed, evidently exasperated even though Martin was fairly sure he couldn't read his mind. “Three dates, we’ve been on, Martin. I rather thought you’d get the message.”

“ _Dates?_ ” Martin’s eyebrows sprang apart in shock. “Th-those were…?”

Dinners in Paris, Tokyo…and more recently: Fitton.

“Oh.” Douglas was looking at Martin with the same shocked expression Martin could feel on his own face.

Except where Martin was still blushing, Douglas had turned rather grey. Martin watched, still confused, as Douglas eased back, knocking the radio on its side again as he pulled himself upright.

It was like someone had turned off the taps feeding Douglas’s treacle-warm confidence.

Martin put the juice bottle carefully down. “Douglas…”

Douglas was concentrating quite hard on re-tuning on the radio, which had defaulted to white noise when it tipped over. “My apologies, Martin,” he said briskly, in the tone of one about to dust off his hands and make a quick retreat. “It seems there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding on my part.”

So wrong to see Douglas looking embarrassed. Martin put his hand out without thinking. “–No, Douglas. I just… really?” He winced at the hopeful, incredulous upswing of his question. 

The sudden squawk of pop music through cheap speakers was nothing against the tremulous spark in Martin’s chest as Douglas looked up.

“We’ve been on _three_ _dates_?" Martin asked again. "You… you never said _anything_!” Martin had Douglas’s sleeve in a loose grip.

Douglas’s expression had morphed from embarrassed to scandalised. He put the radio back down firmly enough that both the tuning and volume dials wobbled; the music a little louder, a little more crackly.

“Never _said_ anything? I was _wooing_ you, Martin. Good lord, I really must be losing my touch if you never even _noticed_.” Douglas rubbed his free hand over his face and Martin couldn’t read him now.

He tugged on the sleeve still in his grasp, willing Douglas to look him in the eye. “So… tonight… when you said…?”

Douglas finally met his gaze. “A three-course, home-cooked, candle-lit dinner at my house. Just you and me.” His voice was flat and devoid of the kind of promise, intent or charm that, Martin realised belatedly, had been colouring their conversations before tonight.

Martin released the sleeve he was holding to hesitantly slide his fingers down into Douglas’s hand. It took all his courage and willpower not to look away. “And… you were expecting _me_ at…at…”

“Seven o’clock.” Voice still flat, but Douglas’s fingers had tightened, ever so slightly, around Martin’s.

“Seven, right,” said Martin, feeling distant.

That was well over four hours ago. And Douglas claimed to have found Martin easily. Which meant he hadn’t come looking right away. He must have assumed…He flicked his gaze over Douglas’s face. The expression was a bit…sad, he decided. _Resigned._ But there was still something flickering in his eyes.

Martin cleared his throat, felt his palms getting a bit damp as he clasped Douglas’s hand a little tighter. “So… that’s, um…would you say the dinner… _evening_ was, um… ruined, then?”

Douglas looked down at their hands. Rubbed his thumb gently over Martin’s knuckles. “Not…insurmountably… _sir._ ” His tone had regained a bit of its trademark rumble.

Martin bit his lip as Douglas glanced back up at him through an uncharacteristically messy fall of fringe. He hesitated only briefly before giving in to a long-held desire to run his fingers through Douglas’s hair, smoothing it back so he could see his face properly.

Douglas’s voice was practically a purr now. “The first course might have got a bit spoiled from… _neglect_ , but–” Martin caught his breath as Douglas closed his eyes and pushed his head up into the trembling strokes “–I’d say the rest of the… _feast_ is definitely…salvageable.”

Douglas opened his eyes again just as the radio shook with distorted cheers and whistles. They’d missed the official midnight countdown completely. Martin didn’t even turn to look when the sky lit up, his own grin felt blinding as he leaned towards Douglas.

For all they knocked noses and clashed teeth, their first kiss was precisely the celebration it should have been: passionate and warm and wet and _wanted_ – and accompanied by explosions that set the night ablaze.

After the initial collision it became a softer push-pull of lips and desire. Hot breath and gentle nips. Delicate, almost chaste caresses and less chaste whispers.

When they finally managed to draw apart, they wrapped themselves around each other, and snuggled under the blanket together to not-watch the rest of the firework display. It was only when they realised even the smoke and remaining cars had cleared that they helped each other down from the van… and went back to Douglas’s house to ring in the new year properly.

 

 

 


End file.
